


week three: youth (every day I still go back to that time)

by apathetic_revenant



Series: Stanuary 2018 [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 02:02:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathetic_revenant/pseuds/apathetic_revenant
Summary: Written for Stanuary 2018. Stan has a hurdle to go through before recovering his childhood memories.





	week three: youth (every day I still go back to that time)

 

 

The first thing Stan remembers about his childhood, before they start to tell him about it, is only this: a beach, a friend, and a dark cloud hanging. These are only impressions, a sense of waves and sand, of companionship, of foreboding. Perhaps it is a matter of proximity, but those memories seem to take the longest time to return. Even when he begins to recall his more immediate past, this recent summer and all the summers before it in this strange little town, he has nothing of his childhood but impressions.

But even if he does not recall his own youth just yet, he's apparently left his mark on quite a few others. The two wide-eyed children begging him to remember attest to that. And for their sake, he does remember. That part is not hard. There are painful moments-- _“You really think I'm a bad guy?”_ \--but far more good ones: stickers and glitter and fireworks and long summer days and smiles. He doesn't quite remember, at first, that he's supposed to be gruff and distant, but the kids don't protest the more open affection.

It's not just those two, though. There's the young man who, to hear him tell it, Stan practically raised as a son. He has years of stories, all of which he clearly regards with the utmost fondness even when they don't seem to turn out that well. And there's the red-haired teen trying very hard to be cool and unconcerned who talks about how he taught her to pick locks and she taught him how to chop wood.

And there are others.

It surprises Stan, but they come forward: a stocky, deep-voiced girl who spins a tale of a frankly improbable adventure involving some kind of board game and evil wizard. A shy girl with huge glasses who describes an even more improbable story about giant spiders. A blonde girl in expensive clothes who admits that she hasn't been the nicest to him, but “you're pretty cool or something, I guess.” (Then there's the strange white-haired kid who barely makes it through the door before getting chased away by the others. It takes Stan a while to figure that one out.)

They don't know him that well, but they help fill in details: “You like Ducktective.” “You throw a good party.” “You can write with a pen in your mouth.”

If it surprises him that he seemed to know children—children who didn't hate him—it surprises Stan even more that he's known people as children who are now adults. But apparently he's been a part of this town for a while now. People tell him that they remember going to see the Mystery Shack as kids, or fondly recall visiting on Halloween or Summerween to see his elaborate costumes and decorations.

Stan has been a part of a _community_.

That's the most surprising thing of all.

But even when he has begun to properly remember himself, his own childhood remains little more than impression, only a faint blur of sand and sea. He remembers that the gray-haired man with the red sweater and bandaged wrists is his brother, and when Stan looks at him he feels a confusing rush of emotions: powerful relief and a longing for reconciliation and hot, desperate anger, all blended together in fear and shame and regret.

He supposes Stanford must have been the companion he faintly recalls from that blur of childhood. He can work out that something must have happened between them. But he doesn't _remember_.

It's frustrating. He thinks there's something he would like to remember there. It doesn't seem like it could have been all bad, that childhood of his. But it remains resolutely foggy. He pretends otherwise, because there's a pained look that Stanford tries and fails to hide whenever Stan doesn't remember something about him, and Stan hates seeing it. So he sidles his way through conversations-- _Oh yeah, that, of course I remember that—_ and thinks he's doing alright.

But Stanford is cannier than he seems. The third day after the end of the world, when the Shack has finally been repaired enough for them to move back out of the hotel rooms they've been staying in, he waits until the kids have gone upstairs and says, “A word if you please, Stanley.”

His voice is clipped and formal, but it's an act; Stan can see the discomfort in his eyes. He pauses in the doorway he was passing through. “Yeah?”

Stanford fidgets with his pockets. “You don't remember me, do you?”

Stan is so startled in being caught out in his lie that for a moment he can say nothing at all.

“Some of the things you've said don't really add up,” Stanford goes on. “I just...I just want you to know that you don't have to lie to make me feel better. I'd rather you were honest about your recovery.”

 _You'd rather I remembered you_ , Stan thinks, but he doesn't say it. He says, “I do remember you. Just...not very much.”

Stanford looks away. “I'm...sure your memories will be fully restored in time,” he mumbles. “It has been rather a long time...that is...”

The next words out of Stan's mouth are a complete shock even to him.

“What happened between us?”

Stanford looks up, sharply, opens and shuts his mouth. “Are...you sure you're ready to hear that?”

Stan shrugs one shoulder. “I've gotta hear it sometime or other, don't I?”

Stanford looks like he's about to say something else, but at that moment there's the thundering of footsteps on the stairs, breaking into the taut conversation.

“Not now,” Stanford says, glancing in the direction of the child noises. “...Tonight. We'll talk tonight, alright?”

“Alright,” Stan says.

He's not looking forward to it.

 

They talk.

There was a school and a science fair and a broken project and an argument. Stan listens silently, not trying to defend himself, not saying anything at all.

There was a postcard and a portal and another argument and a push at the wrong time. Stan says nothing.

There were three decades, and there were mistakes made.

There is silence.

Stan looks at the ceiling.

“Thank you,” Ford says eventually.

Stan looks down. “What?”

“You wanted me to thank you.” Ford takes a drink from his glass. They're emptying the bottle in front of them rather quickly. “For bringing me home. You were angry because...I wouldn't. And then, when it was too late, I thought I'd never get the chance to. So I'm doing it now. Thank you.”

It rings a bell with Stan, but at the same time it feels hollow. He knows that this was something he wanted, but it feels like part of another life now.

“You're welcome,” he says.

Ford swishes his drink. “Do you remember any of this?” he asks.

Stan closes his eyes.

He sees--

\--a dark gymnasium and a fist brought down too close to the hated device--

\--blue light and a red book and anger filling his chest until he had no room left inside him--

\--the floor yawning away from him as gravity went haywire--

\--a fist closing in when he expected to be embraced--

He opens his eyes.

Lately Stan feels like a jigsaw puzzle slowly being solved. Ford has filled in a lot of pieces, but the picture's not quite there yet.

“Sort of,” he says. “I can see bits of it, but not how it all fits together. Sort of like a dream. Does that make sense?”

Ford nods and takes another drink.

And then, because it seems important, Stan says, “I don't think I...meant any of it. I didn't mean to destroy your project. Or to push you in.”

“I know,” Ford says.

“But I'm sorry.”

“I know,” Ford says. “I am too.”

 

It's a hard night to get through, but after the bitter comes the sweet.

His childhood memories finally start to return, and though some of that is undoubtedly due to Ford's concerted efforts, Stan has a definite feeling of a dam being broken after that night. The foreboding coloring those memories is gone now. In its place is a sense of melancholy, now that he knows what those memories build up to, but also a sense of peace.

Perhaps he had to learn what was hanging over those memories before he could recover them, but Stan's no philosopher or brain-doctor. He's just relieved now to have it out of the way, to be able to enjoy the photos and old film reels and mementos that Ford digs up.

And he's relieved to remember his beach, but more than that, he's relieved to have his friend again.

 


End file.
